


our secrets will not tangle

by yele



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yele/pseuds/yele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one night could be enough to change everything. could it?<br/>sherlock is missing. joan finds help from an unlikely ally.<br/>2nd person narr, Joan POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	our secrets will not tangle

Worry is a thin ghost that always seems to linger just behind the back of your neck. 

At first you weren’t too concerned by Sherlock’s absence. He’d sent a postcard with a few scribbled notes on his travels in Bolivia, something about tracing migrating bees and the pristine quality of the sky over there. He’d called from a shabby hostel out in the far away sands of Atacama. It’s only when the days piled into weeks and the weeks rolled into a month that a quiet buzz stirred within you. No one seemed to know anything about his whereabouts. It wasn’t uncommon per say for the wild man to poof and disappear but he’d been great about communicating his location with you. Sherlock understood you cared and respected your relationship enough to be in touch.

The hours tumbled one after the other and another week danced around, and you had already started tracing his steps. You’d gone back to that 15 year old kid he’d use to hack files and had him trace whatever email and phone calls you had. It wasn’t leading anywhere. Marcus had scoffed at your distress and promised to look into it, but that wasn’t going anywhere. You’d started pondering flying over and following in the footsteps of this madman that had become your best friend and your family.

You were running in the park, a late night’s darkness chasing after your footsteps. She was sitting, frozen like another marble statue left astray in the halls of the Louvre. But you couldn’t miss her. Her sharp jawline, that resolution in her eyes that could pierce the deep black of the evening and back it shake with fear. Yes, you knew her. People should know anything that could destroy them.

There was no overture. She locked eyes with yours and whispered or maybe even shouted. Her words filled your entire being.

“It’s far too late to be this locked inside yourself.”

You don’t know why you followed her. Probably because you’ve been desperate. You hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t acted like a normal person with a normal feeling for the world since Sherlock had disappeared. And there she was. Moriarty. Beautiful beast, murderer, temptress, liar. A sinner asking you to sin. You were only hoping she could help.

This wasn’t her apartment. Long gone were the times when you’d be foolish enough to entertain such a thought. You’re aware of how criminals of her rank play their cards. Many places, many options, many pit stops along their road to chaos.

She looked so innocent, so pure and so detached from all the blood and murder. In her white camisole and ripped jeans, just the clicking of heels leading your thoughts to a different place. You couldn’t concentrate. But never you mind. You were here for Sherlock.

The place was spacious with big windows but empty. It was apparent no one really lived here apart from the occasional night. Moriarty led you to the dining room, something too innocent and young, detached from her usual controlled style and almost sterile elegance.

“Fancy a glass?” she asked quietly, almost shyly, holding a bottle of red. She offered it casually but you know the price tag was at least four digits.

“You said you could help find Sherlock,” you answer in return. This should be business as usual.

The young woman doesn’t reply, simply leaves the wine on the shelf and takes out a plate of fruit, leaves it on the table between you. It’s surprisingly peaceful, quiet, dare you think… domestic. Yet those are the hands that have killed.

“I have it on good word that our friend Sherlock has been stuck in a rather peculiar situation.”

She ushers you closer and you huddle around a laptop. She shows you maps of a tiny village in the middle of nowhere.

“You’re saying they’re holding him hostage because he’s trying to smuggle honey out of their region?”

Moriarty hums. Her eyes are unfocused, her gaze meandering between the branches of the tree outside on the street.

The situation is ridiculous but not any less unpleasant. Sherlock needs to get rescued in any case - be it manslaughter or honey theft.

“My men are on it. He should be back in New York for lunch tomorrow.”

“And you couldn’t have told me this in the park?” You try to muster an air of annoyance and Jamie - when did she become Jamie? - gracefully doesn’t say anything.

“I have some Qoiri that’s just about ready” the other woman offers, quietly, tentatively.

You could leave. You should leave. This is another tricky game from the lair of a serial killer, an international criminal mastermind.

But you stay.

You stay and you spend the night being entertained by Moriarty’s stories. Half lies and flimsy truths at best about her travels in Tibet, her study of 17th century optic tools, how she snuck into a cardistry tournament and got drunk on a boat that slimmered down the canals of Ghent.

It’s easy to take in, to consider, to put this moment in a make belief world where you can pretend this is yours. That there’s a gorgeous blonde with a quick wit and dazzling humor who turns to you and looks at you with a deep reverence. 

It’s past 2 am when you’ve had more than three bottles of whatever wine from whatever grape from whatever southern French vineyard that Jamie has charmingly offered. She’s kicked off her shoes long ago and has plopped her legs in your lap. You’re laughing, dazzled and dazed, as she hands you torn pieces of paper with random doodles that have just slipped from her pen. This is so, so easy. You can’t recall when you forgot to hold on to your barbed walls and distance.

You wake up before her, still on that same couch. You should be surprised, appalled, shocked or even disgusted. But you’re not. Her hair, more gold than the wheat fields in children’s stories, is scattered around your shoulders.

There’s no Moriarty. Just a young woman with an unguarded face, tucked underneath your chin, holding onto you.

The wine has all but left your blood and with the piercing light of the sun, something akin to a tear draws dangerously close to leaving your eyes.

She’s a murderer, a cold-blooded killer, a ruthless con. Not the girl who made jokes about quantum mechanics and spilled noodles on her floor. Your heart aches. You are who you are.

You give yourself this tiny sliver of a moment. Your fingers drop to the edges of her hair and grasp them gently. She’s so soft and quiet in her sleep. You know you shouldn’t but you do. A part of you wishes you were words away, different bodies and different beings. Two strangers meeting on the street by haphazard chance.

You’re not.

You try to leave without waking her. She doesn’t stir as you untangle from the embrace and lock of limbs. It’s only when you retrieve your coat that you realize she’s standing by the corner wall.

“You could stay,” she says. And you know it’s not a plea. It is what it is. You could stay.

“I wish I could, Jamie.” You watch her eyes close for a moment. Close and open.

“We can leave,” she urges you. “We can go to Southern Italy or France, Japan even. I know a small town you’d like. Books and mountains, wild air and cherry trees -- “

Your eyes are welling up and this is so, so wrong. You take a step towards the door, ready to leave, door on the handle. God, you have to get out of here. You can’t be this person, this lie, this stolen character from a fantasy.

“I matched you.” Moriarty says finally. “You matched me.”

And it’s simple and clear. Not imploring, not desperate. But true.

That no one else has come close goes without saying. And you understand, you are certain of it in every bone and breath in you, that there is only one of her. Only one who sees you, challenges you and knows you. 

Your hand stays cold and frozen on the door handle for a moment, before you turn it open. You hold her eyes for just a stolen second.

You pretend you don’t wish it hadn’t lasted longer.


End file.
